A voice from off-camera asked a question.
“Mr. Oakley, exactly how much of a percentile raise was ascribed to the cancer-fighting drugs distributed by Alocore Incorporated after you took over as CEO?”
Stevenson recognized the voice of the questioner. It was some congresswoman from California or somewhere out west.
Oakley covered the microphone with his hand and conferred with the heavyset man sitting next to him.
“I have been advised by my counsel to decline to answer any questions at this time,” Oakley said, “on the grounds that I might incriminate myself.”
“Surely you can confirm,” the woman continued, papers rattling in the background, “that the price of the drug known as CZF-269, otherwise marketed as New Horizons Three, went from a cost of three dollars a pill to seven-hundred-and-fifty dollars per pill.”
Oakley smiled as he leaned toward the microphone once again and repeated the same phrase. “On advice of my counsel...”
Stevenson’s fingers curled into a fist, crushing the cigar in the process. The hot ash fell onto the tabletop.
Stevenson stood, towering over Nelson. “I want that little prick taken care of,” he said. “Soon. I’m tired of him playing games on Capitol Hill. It’s only a matter of time before they offer him immunity and he starts spilling his guts.”
“Relax,” Nelson said. “I’ve got things covered. We’ve got his lawyer’s office and his apartment bugged, and we’ve got our patsy, Tom Chandler, housed at the motel in Alexandria.”
“Good. Keep him there until we’re ready to use him. What other precautions have you got going?”
“Well,” Nelson said, “I’ve made a few discreet phone calls asking a couple of senators who have influence on the investigating committee to keep things proceeding at a slow pace. We’ll know in advance if and when they’re getting ready to cut him a deal. As long as he’s taking the Fifth, we’re safe from anything he might say in the short term.” He paused and grinned. “And once our distraught husband, Tom, makes his move, it’ll all be a moot anyway. We’ll have our fallback saying that he was let go as CEO after Stevenson Dynamics acquired the company and found out he was doing the price gouging and the other stuff.”
“That’ll still leave us open to charges that we knew about the side-effects of CEZ-A2 when we acquired Alocore.”
“Which, we can then say, is why we felt compelled to continue our research on the drug,” Nelson said, throwing up his hands. “To pursue a cure.”
“What if somebody, like that goddamn blogger or reporter of whatever the hell he is, finds out the exact nature of that research?”
“We’re keeping tabs on him, too,” Nelson responded. His face was flushed.
“He’s got to be the one in cahoots with that asshole Oakley,” Stevenson said. “Somebody’s got to be feeding that little shit information.”
Nelson nodded, making small, placating gestures with his hands. “Bill, relax. We’ve got all the bases covered. I promise you.” He was breathing rapidly now, like an out-of-shape man in the middle of a 5K race.
“That’s not good enough, damn it.” For emphasis, Stevenson smashed his fist onto the tabletop, causing the remnants of the crushed tobacco to jump. “I want all of this rectified.”
“It will be. It will be.”
Stevenson looked at the man and sighed. It gave him little satisfaction that he’d won this small debate and that he’d gotten the assurances from his number one yes-man. He looked longingly at the crushed cigar on the table. “I know you’re dealing with it,” he said, trying to imbue a sense of calmness into his voice. “But you can understand my concern, right? If Oakley still has some of those internal memos from Alocore... If he kept some copies, and he gives them to that reporter, or worse, if someone in Washington, like that bitch from California, ever gets her hands on them...”
“The only thing you’ll have to worry about when this thing is over is what suit to wear when Buchanan gives you a top cabinet position.”
“Not good enough,” Stevenson said. He went to the table and pressed a button on the underside. “Get me another cigar.”
“Right away, sir,” Callahan’s voice said over a speaker.
Stevenson straightened and looked at Nelson again.
“I want this matter taken care of soon. Make it a priority.”
Nelson nodded.
“What time will he get here?” Stevenson asked.
“The Talon? About noon,” Nelson said. He started to continue and then stopped as the voluptuous Callahan entered with a large cigar and a gold lighter.
Stevenson smiled and accepted the cigar from her, placing it between his teeth and biting the end off. Callahan held out her left hand and Stevenson spat the bitten-off portion into her open palm. She then extended the lighter in her right hand. He twirled the cigar in the flame, puffing to get it started. When he had a good burn going, he nodded and winked at her.
“Now, where were we?” he asked, blowing out a cloud of smoke.
Nelson looked ready to cough, but suppressed it. He took a slight step back. “We thought it prudent to bring him in through Nova Scotia. He went through Canadian customs, which was a snap, as usual, and then we snuck him in using a second name. There’s absolutely no record of him entering the U.S.”
Stevenson puffed on the cigar, taking a moment to savor the taste. “Okay, what about Debussey?”
“He and Quarry arrived late last night. I told them to rest up but be ready to report this afternoon.”
“And that infected aide?” Stevenson asked. “What’s his status?”
“We steered him into Winthrope Harbor Hospital, as you directed, with the offer of free medical care due to his service to humanity, courtesy of Stevenson Dynamics.”
Stevenson frowned. “What’s our timetable on that adjustment?”
“The professor can confirm it when he gets here, but I’d say we’ve got a decent window of perhaps thirty-six hours or so.”
“We’ve got to eliminate that turd before the virus starts to shut itself down. I don’t want the suicide gene aspect to be known.”
Nelson’s mouth curled into a lips-only smile. He nodded. “Okay, I’ll have the Talon take care of that matter first.”
Stevenson frowned. “I hope this European adjuster is as good as you say he is.”
“He comes highly recommended. You want to meet him?”
Stevenson blew out a plume of smoke, considered that, then shook his head. “Better if I don’t. Plus, I heard that’s the way he likes it, as well.” He drew on the cigar. “Now, getting back to that damn blogger-reporter or whatever the hell he is.” His words were laced with smoke.
Nelson grinned nervously. “Quarry assigned a couple of men to shadow him. They haven’t gotten back to me yet.”
“Well, find out, damn it. And call Debussey and Quarry in here now. I want to talk to them.”
He turned and stormed out the door, leaving Nelson alone in the center of the big room.
Stony Man Farm
Virginia
BOLAN CROUCHED BY the side of the low wall, waiting. Grimaldi was next to him, bending at the waist, half hidden by the wall. The array of buildings in front of them was two-story frames.
“Do we really have to do this again?” Grimaldi asked, the weariness and pain obvious in his voice.
“We do,” Bolan replied. “And be advised, your back is partially exposed in that posture.”
“Better than my ass,” Grimaldi said, grinning.
“Get down lower so you’re not such an easy target,” Bolan instructed.
Before Grimaldi could respond there was a flash in the second-floor window of the building. Bolan caught the movement, rose and fired two rounds from his Beretta 93-R.
“You get him?” Grimaldi
asked.
“Unknown.” Bolan sprang to his feet and said, “Cover fire,” as he began to sprint toward the building.
They were using Etymotic electronic earplugs, which allowed them to converse in normal tones while blocking out any sudden or potentially harmful noises above 300 decibels.
Grimaldi sighed, rose, placed his arms on top of the wall and fired several shots from his 9 mm P-226 SIG Sauer pistol at the second-story window. Once he’d seen Bolan make the midpoint of his advance, he followed.
Both men crouched behind a parked car in front of the building, staring up at the now empty second-story window.
“Ready?” Bolan asked.
Grimaldi nodded and started to rise but Bolan placed his hand on the Stony Man pilot’s arm.
“Aren’t you forgetting something?” he asked.
Grimaldi, his face flushed and wet with sweat, looked perplexed. “What?”
“You haven’t been counting your shots,” Bolan said. “I believe you only have one round left. It might be a good time to do a combat reload.”
Grimaldi ejected his magazine. Sure enough, it was empty. He dropped it to the ground and slammed in a fresh mag.
“Satisfied?” he asked.
Bolan didn’t reply. Instead he tapped Grimaldi’s shoulder, indicating that it was time for them to make their final approach to the building. Grimaldi, who was on the Executioner’s right, had to go first since he was closest to the front door. He straightened and jogged halfheartedly to the front entrance. Bolan moved right behind him, zigzagging to the left so as not to provide a dual target. He ran up the steps to the left side of the entrance. Reaching down, he tried the doorknob with his left hand. His right held the Beretta at combat-ready position.
It was open. He reached into the left leg pocket of his black cargo pants and withdrew a flashbang grenade. Checking to make sure Grimaldi was ready, Bolan armed the device and nodded to Grimaldi, who reached out with his left hand and twisted the doorknob. Bolan waited a second, then tossed the flashbang through the open door. With the earplugs in place, the explosion sounded muffled, and both men went through the door, button-hooking their entry to opposite sides of the room.
Two new hostile targets popped up in front of them. Both were shot.
They kept moving, clearing rooms as they went.
Another target flipped up in the hallway.
Bolan double-tapped it.
He knew he still had six rounds left in his magazine. Moving forward he cleared the last room. Two targets flipped up. One, a swarthy-looking hostile holding an AK-47. The other, a terrified-looking female. Bolan shot the first target and advanced to check the other one. Had this been a real operation, he would have secured the apparent female hostage, however a second target, this one almost a mirror image of the female hostage with the exception of it holding a large, curved knife, popped up.
Bolan shot that one, as well.
He then shouted, “Clear.”
Two more shots sounded from across the hallway. Bolan started for the door when the safety buzzer sounded and the range master’s voice came over the loudspeaker. “Cease fire, cease fire.”
Bolan frowned and clicked on the safety. He walked to the hallway and saw Grimaldi standing there, his weapon down by the side of his leg.
“Jack, you shot a hostage,” the range master’s voice said.
Grimaldi jammed his weapon into his holster and held up his middle finger toward the ceiling camera. “Yeah, well, she deserved it. She was infected with Stockholm Syndrome.”
“Hey,” the range master’s voice said. “Don’t forget, I’m still in charge here.”
Grimaldi flashed the finger at the camera once again.
Bolan grinned. “Jack has a way with the ladies. Let’s do it again.”
“Again?” Grimaldi snorted. “How many times are we going to have to do this?”
“Until we get it right,” Bolan said. He was starting back for the door when the range master’s voice stopped him.
“Actually, I got a call to terminate the training. Hal wants to see you. ASAP.”
“Thank God for small favors,” Grimaldi said, the weariness evident in his voice. “I’m still suffering from jet lag that I didn’t even know I had, and I didn’t even fly us back here.”
Bolan kept walking, wondering what it was that Brognola felt was important enough to interrupt their training. He figured he’d find out soon enough.
Stevenson Dynamics
Fairfax County, Virginia
STEVENSON TOOK A few more puffs on his fourth cigar of the morning. After blowing out the cloud of smoke, he looked at the smoldering, wrapped bundle of tobacco and frowned. He knew he was smoking too many of the things. Without taking another puff, he reached over to the table and stubbed out the cigar in the large ashtray in front of him. As if in response, the intercom buzzed and Ms. Callahan’s voice announced, “Mr. Nelson is back, sir. With the guests.”
“Send them in,” Stevenson said. He unfolded from his chair, wanting to be standing as the group entered. He’d learned a long time ago how to use his height to its full advantage, especially when dealing with underlings. It gave him a natural advantage, not that he needed it with these three.
Nelson entered first, his face full of assurance that he’d carried out all previous instructions with the aplomb of a first-rate assistant. Quarry came in next, big, bald and black. Although he wore a business suit, the massiveness of the man’s frame could hardly be concealed. His face was all business, his manner cool, yet without any bluster. Stevenson liked the man’s physical prowess and strength.
When I eventually get to the White House, Stevenson thought, I’ll want to keep this guy on a special retainer, just in case anything needs taking care of.
The last one to enter was the professor, Dr. Arnold Debussey. He was barely above five-eight or five-nine. In his mid-fifties, he appeared much older. His fuzzy hair had gone mostly gray, and his plump body showed little resilience to time’s passage. The scientist’s skin had a pasty look, and his black-framed glasses were perched atop a prominent nose.
Stevenson wondered about the man’s nose... Had he been bullied in early life? Perhaps the nose had been broken. But one thing was for certain: the guy had a first-class brain.
“About time you got here,” Stevenson said, allowing the trace of a frown to set upon his face. He knew from experience that it was an effective way to establish dominance and set the tone.
“Sorry, boss,” Nelson said. “Traffic.”
Quarry’s expression didn’t change but Debussey looked a bit shaken.
Stevenson waited a few more beats then motioned for them to sit at the opposite end of the table. When they’d finished sitting, Stevenson began pacing back and forth, towering over them even more and leaving them in subservient positions.
He looked down at Quarry. “How in the hell did that African thing turn into such a cluster fuck?”
Quarry took a deep breath before answering. “Well, sir, we had a couple of unexpected developments.”
“‘Unexpected developments,’” Stevenson said. He flashed a humorless smile. “Is that what you’d call them?”
Quarry said nothing. His background was the military... Special Forces. He was used to reporting to the higher-ups after a mission that hadn’t quite gone as planned.
Stevenson turned to Debussey. “What have you got to say for yourself?”
Debussey shifted in his chair and repositioned his glasses on his nose.
“Well, I think things began well,” he said. “After the Keller Virus was introduced into the village by the misting process, the first outbreaks came within twelve hours, which was our target time, was it not?” He sat hunched over, his fingers occasionally wiping at his long, twisted nose. “I was set to administer the antidote
to curtail the outbreak when we were ordered out. It was my understanding that the nurses would continue that regimen.” He stopped and shook his head. “Apparently word broke out that there was a burgeoning Ebola epidemic and some of the locals took matters into their own hands.”
“Yes,” Stevenson said. “Both tragic and shocking. But the antivirus? It was working effectively?”
“From the limited data that I was able to recover in the time allowed, it appears that the suicide gene I introduced into the virus was working effectively. After initial contamination, and then incubation, the symptoms continued to worsen, until they peaked after forty-eight hours.” He stopped talking and compressed his lips.
“What’s wrong?” Stevenson asked.
Debussey sighed. “Several things. First of all, I was not given enough time to verify the results of the syndrome. And second, the experiment was cut way too short. This abrupt truncation? It is bound to skew the results.” He removed his glasses to wipe his eyes. “It’s just...” His voice dissolved into racking sobs.
Tears?
Stevenson looked down with an expression he hoped would convey his disgust. Weakness was something he loathed. “What now?”
Debussey swallowed hard and replaced his glasses. “The fatality rate. We expected there might be a few—the old, the sick, which was why I was applying the antidote to those select few prior to the dispersion. But...”
“But what?” Stevenson asked.
“We pulled out and left too abruptly,” Debussey said. “If I’d had time to administer the antiviral supplemental drugs in the manner I’d planned, it would have minimized the fatalities. And, in the long run, it might have prevented the massacre.”
“That’s hardly your fault,” Stevenson said, turning his head to shoot a sly wink at Nelson. “You shouldn’t feel responsible for the actions of some panicking natives.”
Debussey took off his glasses and wiped at his eyes again.
The asshole was crying, Stevenson thought. Weakness... He despised weakness. He was going to have to watch this sad sack.
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